Be My Saving Grace, page 1
Be My Saving Grace © 2023 Rachel O’Rourke.
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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First Printing: April 2023
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RACHEL O'ROURKE
I dedicate this book to anyone that is struggling with a mental illness and/or past trauma. I wrote this story in the hopes that it could help others see that there is always a light within the darkness, sometimes we just haven’t found it yet.
Acknowledgements
A big thank you to my wonderful husband who believed in my writing. Thank you to my small group of trusting friends that gave me honest feedback and support throughout the writing process, and most of all to a dear friend who shared her story about being hospitalised with Bipolar.
1. TUESDAY
The screeching sound penetrates his eardrums, causing his body to wake as it brings him back to reality. He reaches out for his phone to shut the damn thing off. He wants to throw his phone against the wall. But he doesn’t. That’s the old him. The adolescent that would use fists and rage to solve all problems. These days his body doesn’t have much room for anger. It’s filled with this numbness that gets him through his day-to-day routine. He wakes, goes to work, helps those that he can, and then comes home to his one-bedroom apartment, with his frozen meals, his bed that only needs to be made on the right side every morning because the left side is as empty as he is, and his cat, Socks.
Nickolas lies on his back, looking at the cracks in his ceiling with the water damage from when the apartment above him flooded. He takes three deep breaths. Closing his eyes, he wills – no – begs his body to take him back to his dream where he was happy, laughing, and felt like himself again. To take him back to the one person he ever loved, to when things were good, for everyone. A tear threatens to fall from his face as a soft ringing reaches his ear. The sound isn’t his phone but the jingle of the cat bell around Socks’s neck. Gracefully she jumps onto the bed, crawls alongside his body till she reaches his neck, and nuzzles against his collarbone, purring good morning into his ear.
‘Hey, gorgeous,’ Nickolas mumbles. He scratches behind her ear, kissing the orange fur on her head as a soft smile spreads across his face. ‘How’d you know I needed cuddles, hmm?’
Once again the silence of his bedroom is disturbed by his phone ringing on his bedside table. Nickolas sits up and retrieves his phone. He rolls his eyes as he sees the contact ‘work’ appear on his screen. He answers, using his somewhat polite tone of voice specifically for when he talks to anyone from work.
‘Hello?’
‘Nickolas, sorry, I know today is your day off, but, well, Jasmine came in this morning but hasn’t been able to stop throwing up, so we’re down a person. Do you think you can come in?’
Nickolas runs a hand down his face, his thumb and index finger pulling at his eyelids in the hopes that the pressure will wake them up and prepare him for the day ahead which looks nothing like the one he was originally planning. He coughs, clearing his voice so he sounds sure of himself before he answers.
‘Sure, no problem. I’ll be there within the hour.’
‘You’re an angel, Nickolas.’
Nickolas scoffs. He thinks to himself how God must have a twisted sense of humour if angels can be put through hell.
‘Now, Dot, no use telling lies when there’s no one around to hear them.’
‘One day I’ll help you see your true value, Nykolai. One day you’ll understand that you actually do good – and that says a lot about the person you are.’
‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you shortly.’
He hangs up. Although he doesn’t believe a word she said, the tips of his ears feel hot. The red tinge that’s taken over his body from hearing words of praise compared to the words of disgust and hate he is so used to hearing is still an adjustment for him. He clears the three missed calls from work that were the cause of him being woken up before returning his phone to the bedside. Socks is curled up on his pillow, taking advantage of the warmth it radiates to help settle herself back to sleep.
‘What a life.’ Nickolas shakes his head and gets up.
Luckily he showered before going to bed last night, saving him some time so he can get to work within the hour he had promised. He turns the coffee machine on while he makes toast. His dream has left him unsettled. Not wanting to risk eating a big meal with how he is feeling, he grabs a few muesli bars from the cupboard and chucks them in his backpack along with a yogurt from the fridge, a frozen spaghetti and meatball meal, and a bottle of water. He figures if he’s still hungry, he’s sure Dot will have a plate of homemade cookies sitting in the break room that he can pick from throughout his shift. He fills up his travel mug with fresh coffee and sets it on the island with his keys and backpack. He grabs a fresh uniform from his wardrobe, thankful that he did the laundry yesterday and didn’t leave it for today. He dresses in a pair of black, knee-ripped jeans, a blue fitted t-shirt, and his Timberlands. Nickolas throws his uniform in his backpack and makes his way toward the door.
‘Shit, almost forgot.’
He rushes back to the kitchen, grabbing some cat treats and filling Socks’s bowl. She’ll go to it after she’s taken full advantage of the late morning sun, her orange fur glowing as the sun warms and settles her into a deep sleep.
Nickolas heads out, making sure his door is locked behind him, and takes the two flights of stairs down to the lobby. The building’s rickety old elevator has trapped more people in it than it has delivered their floors.
He walks around the back of his apartment, where his Buick is parked. It’s not much, barely worth anything if someone were to steal it to sell or strip it for parts, but it’s enough to get him from A to B. In the South Side, that’s all he needs. He jumps in and is surprised that the engine starts on the first try. He navigates his way through traffic as if he owns the road. He’s made this journey before, hundreds, maybe even thousands of times. He knows every route available that will get him to the psychiatric ward where he works.
The car may run, but the heating shoots out more cold air than warm, the two back windows can’t roll down, and the radio hasn’t worked in over a year. But he loves it. It’s his, bought with his own money that he worked for, that he earned.
The time on the dashboard clock says he’s arrived just within the hour he told Dot it would take him. Nickolas scans his ID at the boom gate so it lifts up, allowing him to park around back. He takes his backpack and coffee, glad to see it’s still hot, and walks towards the entrance.
The sun is shining down on Nickolas, trying to warm him from the outside in and fill that cold void that lives inside of him. Nickolas squints as he walks towards the automatic doors that take him from the world where the wind blows through his hair and onto his face and makes him feel alive. A world where the sky is blue, the leaves on the trees are green and the sounds of people talking, cars honking and children laughing can fill his ears. He leaves that world and steps into the world designed to be monitored, controlled, and assessed. The world of bars on windows, reducing the sunlight to a mere shadow on the wall. Where the air smells of disinfectant, and the only breeze is the recycled air coming through the ceiling ducts. A world where the floors are blue, the walls are a light grey, and the ceiling is white. A world where two things can happen: either the sick come to heal, or they come to die. The decision is always up to them. It’s the only power they are left with when they are admitted, and for most it’s power their minds are too weak to handle.
Nickolas’s eyes adjust from the golden sun to the fluorescent lights. Both are just as bright as each other, but his eyes are more comfortable with the one that’s man-made. Nickolas heads to the front desk, ignoring the anxious family members sitting in the dark blue plastic chairs, picking away at their cuticles, or pacing the four-by-four. He turns to look through the mesh gate that blocks off a corridor and separates the patients from the world. The corridor is currently empty. He casts his eyes away from the hauntingly quiet corridor and looks at the reception desk in front of him. He taps on the glass, grabbing the attention of Darren behind the desk.
‘Hey, Nickolas. I thought you had today off?’ Darren’s chipper voice comes through the glass.
Yeah, so did I. But I hate lettin
‘I wonder why they call it morning sickness when it’s more like a constant sickness.’
‘Wouldn’t know, man. Not my level of expertise.’
‘Right, of course. Women, gross.’
Nickolas scratches his eyebrow. The brass knuckle tattooed on his left index finger reflects back at him in the glass. He can’t blame the guy for trying, but Nickolas believes there are two types of gays in this world. There are those like Darren, whose voice is that little too high, who acts like he’s everybody’s best friend – especially if they are a woman, and who looks as though he’d break if he did anything more than ‘make love’. Then there are people like himself, a guy whose voice is rough enough to make everything sound like a threat, who hates socialising and doesn’t even want to know the name of the guy whose hard dick is in his arse, fucking him rough without having to check-in mid-fuck to see if it’s ‘too much’. It’s been so long since Nickolas has had a good pounding, or even given one, that he considers taking Darren up on that drink he’s always trying to buy him. If he gets drunk enough, he could easily bend Darren over and be done with it. Suddenly the fog clears as he looks down at his work colleague and Nickolas realises he’d rather stick to his hand and Ben Wa balls than go down that path.
‘Darren.’
‘Yeah, Nickolas?’
‘Open the door.’
‘Oh, right, duh.’ Darren rolls his eyes and points at his head as he tilts it from side to side. ‘Oops. I swear, sometimes I wonder if I should be in here with the patients.’ Darren smiles at him.
Nickolas doesn’t laugh, he doesn’t even smile. This job and their patients aren’t a laughing matter.
The buzzer goes off, indicating that the lock is disabled on the door that leads to the employee area. In his peripheral vision Darren gives him a wave but Nickolas pretends like he didn’t see him. These patients are people. They have lives that need to be lived with family and friends that love them. Instead, they are being locked up, medicated, tested, and assessed like lab rats. Nickolas hates it here, but for some, it helps. For some, they are lucky enough to leave and live out the rest of their lives. Those patients are the success stories that get him through, knowing he has helped make a difference. He walks around the corner and makes his way toward the lockers to drop off his bag and change into his uniform. They used to be able to wear their own clothes from home, but the patients couldn’t handle the constant change and had trouble differentiating between those visiting and those working, so in the end, uniforms were put in place. It’s not so much the uniform itself that Nickolas hates, it’s more the fact that it’s purple. He feels like a giant eggplant and the last thing he wants is to be sending those vibes to people, especially Darren – he isn’t getting anywhere near Nickolas’s eggplant. Thankfully, he can still wear his Timberlands. The rules stated that as long as there was no open toes or heels, any shoes were permitted.
He pulls his t-shirt off, and throws the purple top over his head.
‘I didn’t know you had more tattoos.’
Nickolas pulls his top down.
‘That’s because you’re not meant to know. In case you haven’t noticed, Darren, this is a change room. My tattoos are on a part of my body no one sees unless I want them to.’
‘Alright, calm down. Don’t have to bite my head off.’ Darren holds his hands up in surrender.
‘At least your knuckle ones make you look like a badarse. I’m sure it comes in handy with some patients.’
Nickolas slams his locker door shut, hoping the loud bang is enough of a warning for Darren. He has considered many times getting his knuckle tattoos covered up. They were from his old life that was made up of hatred and violence. He doesn’t want that seeping through while he works toward helping people heal. But these tattoos are also a reminder of the world he walked out on. A world that made him feel trapped and lost. He fought to survive. Not just physically, but mentally too. These tattoos are his own form of battle scars, and he wears them with pride as he watches those around him fight battles tougher than any he has ever been dealt.
‘Did you want something?’
‘Oh, right. Dorothy is looking for you. She’s in room six.’
Nickolas nods and walks out, making sure to slip past Darren without any form of body contact. He walks down the corridor, stopping in the break room where he takes one last sip of his coffee before he leaves it on the table. He scans his key card at the end of the corridor. A door opens up to the fifteen patient rooms they have available to them. He scans his key card and steps into the common room, making sure everything is running smoothly. A few patients are sitting in the room while others are standing near the door to the dining area, anxiously waiting to be let in. A lot of these patients benefit from routine. For some, that can be as simple as eat, sleep and socialise at set times during the day, with their scheduled appointments with doctors and therapists. For others, it means sitting at the same seat at the same table for every meal. It means watching the same show on the TV each day, never once missing an episode. Pleased with what he sees, Nickolas exits and makes his way toward room six, knocking before he lets himself in. It’s a courtesy, but not one they implement. These rooms are nothing but a place for each patient to sleep; Nickolas and all the other staff have the power to enter whenever they like. It keeps the patients on their toes, reminding them that there are always people around watching them, monitoring them.
Dorothy looks up as Nickolas enters the room. The bed has been stripped to be cleaned, and all remnants of the patient that was there are now gone.
‘Where’s Sarah?’ Nickolas questions.
‘Her parents picked her up this morning.’
‘Early release?’
‘They saw the progress she was making and knew being away from family was hard on her, so they signed her out.’
Nickolas liked Sarah. Unfortunately, she was in a constant battle between the body and the mind, having been in and out of hospitals while suffering from an eating disorder, spending two years having her weight monitored, attending group therapy and, at one stage, needing to be tube fed. It can be sad at times to see a patient he has bonded with leave, but not seeing them every day at work means they survived. They fought their demons and made it out.
‘I’m proud of her. Hopefully we don’t see her back here.’
‘She left you this.’
He takes the cup of pudding from Dot’s hand and smiles.
Over time, through their conversations shared, Nickolas had learned that chocolate pudding was her favourite food to eat; however, the fear of gaining weight steered her away from it. So, on nights while he was making the rounds, noticing that Sarah couldn’t sleep, he’d knock at her door with a pudding cup for them both, not making a fuss when she refused to eat, though happy to talk as Nickolas ate his own.
‘Her favourite.’ Nickolas smiles at the token Sarah left behind.
When patients couldn’t sleep, protocol stated that they were to be sedated, a thrill that Brett, one of the other orderlies, enjoyed all too well. Nickolas however preferred to offer an ear rather than an injection. Eventually, over time, as Nickolas listened to Sarah’s thoughts and fears, she began to push her own limits by accepting the second pudding cup he would bring just for her, not drawing attention to her progress as she went from only tasting the dipped end of her spoon to eventually eating the entire tub.
‘You got through to her like no other doctor or orderly ever could.’
Nickolas throws the pudding cup in the air and catches it. ‘Just doing my job, Dot.’
‘If I recall, your job doesn’t stipulate sharing pudding during lights out.’
Nickolas thumbs his bottom lip, unaware she knew.
‘Please. If I thought what you were doing was wrong, I would have put a stop to it long ago. Sure, it’s not protocol, but sometimes we need to bend the lines to suit the needs of each individual. We follow a book of rules that don’t always get through to some of these patients. You saw that. Not some doctor or a therapist, you.’ She gives him a warm motherly smile.
